


Gotham Nights

by Nova_Pipping



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, F/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22746217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nova_Pipping/pseuds/Nova_Pipping
Summary: Of all the people you could meet on a train...
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 14





	1. Gotham City Rail

The smell of the underground railway is distinct and unforgettable; the heat and density of the air, despite the late hour, is equally as formidable. Perhaps ‘late’ is not as appropriate a word as ‘early’ is to describe this hour. Another mildly packed show tonight. I still enjoyed it. I’m grateful for the work and the chance to follow my dream et cetera, et cetera. Liberty Theatre is a beautiful building and, while the train and walk home is long, I enjoy my midnight travels. Mostly. It’s my time to think, to relish in the remnants of the adrenaline from performing.  
The train is late, as usual. My head drops backwards against the wall as I sit, wrapped in my trench coat, on the platform bench, breathing in the stuffy surroundings. The guy leaning against the far wall at the end of the platform to my right, who’s been waiting here as long as I have, shifts. His hands, similar to mine, are shoved deep into his pockets; his dark hood is pulled far down over his face as he looks at his feet. We’re the only two here, apart from the homeless man around the corner, back at the bottom of the escalators. It’s a typical turnout for this time of night. Well, this time of morning.

A screech and a light approach from the depthless tunnel, heralding the arrival of the train. The doors open and I amble inside, a few steps behind hoodie-guy. I slump into a seat. He remains standing, leaning against a pole. This may be a long ride.

I like his jeans. They’re a nice colour and the material looks comfortable. A kind of deep blue.  
I suddenly realise how it might look if he glanced down and followed my eye-line. I look away. A moment passes.  
He breathes in and exhales audibly. A dull, metallic thud sounds and I slightly look in his direction to see he’s slapped a hand around the vertical bar and is leaning away from it. He slides slowly around the pole as if it were a lamppost in a musical. He’s evidently bored. That makes two of us.  
I don’t know if it’s because I’m in a slightly good mood, or the confidence hasn’t worn off from the performance, or I am literally bored out of my mind, but I stand and casually step towards another pole, the one closest to me. I raise my hand to it, grip it, then dramatically drop my body weight into a swing, finishing with an inclined look towards hoodie-guy, the both of us still hanging from our poles.  
He pulls himself upright, intrigued by my contribution, and pauses. He raises both of his hands to the horizontal bar above his head and pulls himself upwards until his chin is in line with his hands and the bar. His legs are beautifully straight, toes pointed, and I appreciate this attention to technique. He holds his position for a few seconds before lowering himself impressively slowly back to the floor.  
I grip the bar above my head but twist so I’m facing away from him. With a little prayer that my upper body strength still exists, I haul myself upwards. Bringing my knees up to my head, I post my feet through the gap between the bar and the ceiling, push my legs through and uncoil myself until I can see hoodie-guy again, now upside-down. I release my hands with a final flourish and thank goodness I’m wearing trousers. As I feel my blood begin to gather in my head, I see him silently clap me. I bring my hands back to the bar and flip myself over to return to the ground and give a slightly wobbly bow to my lone spectator.  
Alas, he his rising to the unspoken challenge. Both hands are gripping the vertical pole and suddenly he’s lifting himself off the ground, his body parallel to the floor, as if he were a flag. He dismounts gracefully and leans against the pole, arms folded. I sigh pointedly as I give him his rightfully deserved applause. He responds with a couple of mini-bows and melodramatic feigns of humility.  
Breaks screech as we arrive at a stop, and the slowing train causes the winner of our little showcase to stumble forwards mid-bow. I can’t help but grin. I also realise that this is my stop and as I head for the door, I turn to give my fellow passenger a wave farewell, only to realise he’s disembarking also. As he steps onto the platform after me, he gives me a one-sided smile with raised brows from beneath his hood and a shrug of his shoulders as if to say, “Heh, who knew?”  
We walk in silence up to the surface and seem to be heading in the same direction until, at the cross roads, he turns to go left towards the centre of the city. I’m heading right. I give him a small smile and a single wave, which he returns, and we part ways.  
The streets are quiet as I walk back to my apartment and I listen to my footsteps echo off the paving as I pass through the orange shafts of light. Later, as I’m sliding into bed and switching my bedside lamp off, I realise I’m still smiling.


	2. Treading the Boards

I shoot back to reality once more as I catch myself drifting off to sleep again. The humidity down here is not helping matters. Today was difficult. No, that’s a lie. This _evening_ is difficult due to the highly-energised, sweat-soaked day that preceded it and I am just finding it a struggle to stay on this side of sanity. They cancelled this evening’s show. Not enough seats sold to make a profit and what-not. Instead, we decided to train and make use of the space while we still have it. It’s happened before.

I am ready to sleep.

The train eventually pulls in and I rise from my bench. Already, my limbs are stiff; they feel as heavy as my morale. I’m through the door and into the empty carriage and, using the bar, I slump into the nearest seat. Almost there: home and bed.  
A sweep of dark material passes me just as the doors close and I look up. He turns, I recognise him and I greet Hoodie-Guy with a grin. It’s returned with a bemused slant of a smile, his brows raised, as if to say, _“Hello, again.”_ He’s still got his hood up. I put away my teeth and quirk my mouth to the side, raising my own brows, silently replying, _“Fancy seeing you here.”_

He sits down opposite me with a heavy slump, almost as heavy as mine was, one that implies he ran to make the train; the red in his face is further evidence. We’re pulled to one side slightly as the train disembarks. I notice his apparel: it’s the same black hoodie from the previous night but this time I mark the frays on the sleeve cuffs, the fades in colour at the elbows, the worn pocket. Well-loved. It appears that Hoodie-Guy is getting a little too warm from his excursion as he shifts and pushes back his hood.

Oh, hell no.

As the hood is removed, and his fingers muss through the jet-black locks revealed beneath, all facial features emerge into full view and I realise that Hoodie-Guy is just a little bit, ever so slightly, gorgeous.

I’m staring. I am fully aware that I am staring. I look away. And silently, colourfully, curse to myself.

I look back at Hoodie-Guy. Hoodie-Guy looks at me. I give a small, brief, friendly smile. He returns it.

I curse internally again, and pretend to look around.

_Come on, cut it out._

I inhale sharply, then slowly release the breath, willing some sense and logic into my head.   
Surprisingly, it works.

_Alright, how do you start a conversation? Questions. Questions are good because they invite an answer. Ask him about himself – people like to talk about themselves._

_Hang on, it is weird to randomly start asking strangers on a train to tell their life story._

_But I don’t want to sit here and not chat._

_We could always start swinging on the poles again._

“I like your hoodie.”

_Wow. Just wow._

Hoodie-Guy is extracted from whatever thought-train he was on by my _smooth_ statement.

“Thanks. Nice coat.”

“Heh, thanks.”

I am very disappointed in myself.

“So, what brings you to ‘The Midnight Train’?”

_Why am I still talking?_

“Just working late.”

_Why does his voice have to sound so good, too?_

“You?”

“The same, actually.”

I clear my throat. _Ok, let’s try and salvage this._

“What do you do? I mean, I have to ask because of the spectacular showcase last night. Or is levitating from poles more of a hobby?”

His smile gives me relief. The chuckle too.

“Um, yeah, I’m somewhat of an acrobat, however strange that sounds.”

“Seriously? That’s brilliant.”

“Yeah, part of the circus initially, but I’m more freelance now.”

“That’s amazing. Well, I understand now why you had such good technique.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Last night, y’know, pointed toes, your posture, precision. Good stuff.”

“Well, thank you. Not too bad yourself. And on that matter, what, if I may ask, do you do, being such an expert in… technique?”

I laugh at the musing tone. I kind of adore it.

“I’m a dancer. Well, at the moment I am. General performer, if you will.”

“Ah, a fellow board-treader. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

“And you.” Another laugh.

“Where are you working at the moment? Might I have seen you in something?” His expression transitions to one of caution. “Or are…”

“I’m in a troupe at the Liberty Theatre,” I butt in before he starts off down that route. “We’re doing sort of cabaret nights at the moment.” It’s my turn for my face to drop. “It’s not all that successful, to be honest.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks, but it’s ok. You don’t do it for the money, you do it because you love it, right?”

Before an awkward exchange of forced laughter can ensue, I correct myself, “I love what I do, I really enjoy it. And I chose this path fully aware of the instability of it. It adds to the thrill of the adventure, I say.”

“It’s a good outlook to have,” he says with an assured smile.

My stop arrives all too quickly. Whatever conversation was occurring is cut short as we both rise and exit the carriage.

“So where is it for you, now?” he asks from behind me on the escalators.

“Sorry?”

“You’re next destination. Where are you going?”

“In life, or at the top of the escalators?”

“After the escalators,” he half-laughs, “but life too.”

“It’s home for me.” As I reach the top and step off the conveyor, I remind myself how little I know this person. And what type of people exist in this world. What they can do, no matter how nice they seem. Or how beautiful. People have layers.

“As for life,” I turn to watch as he steps off, “I’m on an adventure. See where the wind takes me.”

“Good plan.”

“What about you?”

We head towards the main exit.

“Well…” A short sigh. “Work’s got me pretty busy, but, as you say, we do it because we love it. I chose this path for a reason, and that reason keeps me going.”

I half-smile as we pass beneath the station archway. The slight chill makes me almost miss the underground humidity, if only for a second. I wrap my coat tight around me. His hood goes back up. We stand for a second, looking out into the streets.

“I believe this is where we part ways,” I pipe up.

“I believe it is,” comes the response.

“I guess I might see you around?”

“Yeah, might do. Depends where the wind takes you.”

My chuff of laughter is instant. I feel my eyes smile.

I take a step towards home. “So… uh, see ya ‘round.”

He takes a step, too. “See ya.”

I only finish the first step before I pause, and turn over my shoulder to say, “I didn’t catch your name.”   
The oddness of the phrase lingers on my tongue.

He swivels deftly to return his focus to me.

“It’s Dick.”

I smile.

“I’m Sam. Nice to meet you, Dick.”

“You too, Sam.”

A nod. A smile. We turn and part ways.

As I close and lock my apartment door, I lean my full weight into it. After a heavy breath, I hang up my coat, my bag, and sit on the edge of my bed. It is time I give myself a talking to.

_Sam, please stop falling in love with every guy you meet._

_Please stop acting like an idiot. Please stop tainting potential friendships with these thoughts. Please stop pretending to be someone you are not._

I remind myself that if I were to meet someone, however unlikely that is, I would want to meet them as myself, not some tongue-tied, brain-scrambled, blushing, infantile girl.   
My shoulders drop and the reality of my inevitable perpetual singleness returns. I am not sad, though. The reality-check empowers me, reminds me who I am.   
The security of my independence is welcomed home and I feel much better as I slide into bed, switch off my lamp, and dream of events that will not transpire.  
And that, I think to myself, is perfectly alright.


	3. Acceleration

“You’re new to Gotham?”

“Yeah, been here just a couple months.”

He’s sitting across from me, one foot resting over the opposite knee, comfortable. The shadows of brick and tunnel-interior whiz past in the window behind his head.

He looks me in the face as he asks, “First impressions?”

For a split second, all I can focus on is the smokey-blue of his irises.

“Busy. Diverse. Very… city-like. Yeah, I know that sounds stupid but I grew up in the country.”

It’s getting easier, talking to him, fewer of those irritatingly infatuated thoughts. “Anyway, that was my _very_ first impression, when I first arrived. Now that I’m working, I see the other side of Gotham. The city is very, very different at night than during the day.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

“There’s something about it.” Despite the reins I’m tugging on, the sentences flow and I’m divulging. “Even this end of the city, away from the centre, where it’s quiet, it still feels… alive.” I feel my eyes light up on the final word. Another time, I might have chastised myself for being so dramatic, but I’m learning to embrace myself. Allowing my weirdness also helps to suppress any personality-feigning antics my hormone-driven brain might enact.

Dick inclines his head as he chimes in, “There’s a strange beauty to it.”

“Exactly,” I say.

It’s Sunday night. There wasn’t a show scheduled for tonight but it still felt like we had been cancelled somehow. Rehearsals now seem… pointless, if that’s the right word, as if we’re just waiting to be told to hit the road and get out.

And here’s Dick on the train home again. I wonder what his job has had him doing to keep him so busy late into the nights.

“What brought _you_ to Gotham?” I ask.

“Well, the circus, really. I basically grew up here with it. We were a family trapeze act, you see. Been in Gotham as long as I can remember, to be honest.”

“Oh, wow. What made you leave? The circus, I mean.”

It seems as though his entire being pauses as he looks at me, then slightly away. He audibly inhales before, finally, “It just wasn’t the place for me anymore.”

I sense there’s more to it, but it is certainly not my place to pry.

“So, you’re freelance now, right? What’s that like?”

“Uhh,” a small chuckle before, “I mean, it’s kind of liberating, but it certainly doesn’t mean I get to choose my own timetable or anything.”

I _think_ I get what he means.

With a high-pitched whine of the brakes, inertia plays its part, nudging us gently, as the train slows to a halt. It’s our stop; we both stand and head to the door.

A sudden shift of the floor beneath me sends me toppling backwards, towards the rear-end of the train. The ensuing second felt electrified as my reflex arcs engaged and shot a hand out to grab the vertical pole beside me. When the conscious part of my brain caught up to the present, I registered not one, but two hands gripping the metal pole and a solid support against my back. The two hands were both left hands. One was mine; the other was attached to an arm whose right-side partner was currently hooked under my near-horizontal torso. Also, the train was moving, with an alarming acceleration. I finally remembered to breathe and pulled myself upright, the hand pressing into my back helping, admittedly, a lot.

“Thanks,” I squeezed out.

“No problem,” Dick replied.

The train was still increasing in speed, so much so that I grabbed hold of the pole again, Dick following suit, a mirror image on the other side of the bar. I looked at him and then to the dark, undefinable shapes shooting past the windows.

“What’s going on?” My voice surprised me with its evenness.

“I don’t know,” he stated with equal calmness, “but I think we’d better find out, soon.”


End file.
